653 Zachariah Scarborough, great grandson of the preceding, was a
soldier in Cromwell's army. On the night of April twentieth he was in
an ale-house off Fleet Street with three brother officers. That day
Cromwell had driven out Parliament and had dissolved the Council of
State. Three of the officers were of Cromwell's party; the fourth,
Captain Zachariah Scarborough, was a "leveler"--a hater of kings, a
Dutch-bred pioneer of Dutch-bred democracy. The discussion began
hot--and they poured ale on it.

"He's a tyrant!" shouted Zachariah Scarborough, bringing his huge fist
down on the table and upsetting a mug. "He has set up for king. Down
with all kings, say I! His head must come off!"

At this knives were drawn, and when Zachariah Scarborough staggered
into the darkness of filthy Fleet Street with a cut down his cheek from
temple to jaw-bone, his knife was dripping the life of a cousin of
Ireton's.

He fled to the Virginia plantations and drifted thence to North
Carolina.

His great-grandson, Gaston Scarborough, was one of Marion's men in his
boyhood--a fierce spirit made arrogant by isolated freedom, where every
man of character owned his land and could conceive of no superior
between him and Almighty God. One autumn day in 1794 Gaston was out
shooting with his youngest brother, John, their father's favorite.
Gaston's gun was caught by a creeper, was torn from him; and his hand,
reaching for it, exploded the charge into his brother's neck. His
brother fell backward into the swamp and disappeared.

Gaston plunged into the wilderness--to Tennessee, to Kentucky, to
Indiana.

"And it's my turn," said Hampden Scarborough as he ended a brief
recital of the ancestral murders which Pauline had drawn from him--they
were out for a walk together.

"Your turn?" she inquired.

"Yes--I'm the great-grandson--the only one. It's always a
great-grandson."

"You DO look dangerous," said Pauline, and the smile and the glance she
sent with the words might have been misunderstood by a young man
entertaining the ideas which were then filling that young man's brain.

Again, he told her how he had been sent to college--she was always
leading him to talk of himself, and her imagination more than supplied
that which his unaffected modesty, sometimes deliberately, more often
unconsciously, kept out of his stories.

Ever since he could remember, his strongest passion had been for books,
for reading. Before he was born th